


Carpe Vitae

by ArcReactorsandDragons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Good Severus Snape, Good Slytherins, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentor Severus Snape, No major character death yet, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PoC Harry, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherins Being Slytherins, be careful yall, semi good severus snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 18:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17289362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcReactorsandDragons/pseuds/ArcReactorsandDragons
Summary: In the beginning there was nothing, then some entity brought fourth light, and the universe, and good and evil, and everything in between. Some said it was magic, others said God, others said science. Harry Potter thought that it didn't matter, but who or whatever did was either very naive or very cruel. And he was willing to bet the latter.Most of the time he thought how much he would like a family which truly loved him.Harry may be hardworking, but had little patience for fair-play. His wanting to learn didn't come from curiousity (he had it once, but it was never nurtured, so it withered away), but rather the need to survive. Daring? Chivalry? Never.Harry has the resourcefulness and cunning of a wild animal, no matter how pleasant he seemed.The Sorting Hat looked into his mind, saw this and guided him in the direction of the House which he could slot into like a puzzle piece, and perhaps, become a home.





	1. sic incipit

**Author's Note:**

> So, rewrite of House of Snakes, sort of. The relationship has changed as im unsure whether this would actually suit the character, and although the rest is the same, my writing style has changed- immensly, so. If from the old one, give it a chance! If new, hi! Read, you might as well. Either way, please kudo and comment.  
> Oh and uh the next chapter should be out... soon? That'll be the real action

It had been a very astonishing couple of days. And confusing. But Harry Potter was only eleven  in age with a severe lack of social skills. So, even if he were a normal boy (which he wasn’t), raised by a loving family (which he wasn’t) with an appropriate way of dealing with things (which he didn’t), the whole thing seemed very outlandish.

You see, three days ago he found out he was living a lie. All very dramatic sounding, but when you broke it down, it seemed all rather fitting.

The guardians instructed to… care for Harry , his Aunt Petunia, and his Uncle Vernon, were in fact his real Aunt and Uncle, they weren’t the lie. The things they said, however, were. Things like;

“Your parents were worthless drunken nobody’s”, or, “Magic isn’t real! Get that shit out of this house”, “Your parents died as they lived, recklessly, leaving their mess for others to clean up” which was usually said (shouted) with a slap or rude gesture at him or.. Well they said a lot of things like that. Their most common was reminding him that his parents were dead in a car crash after driving drunk. Because, “even your parents would rather die than be around you any longer”.

Apparently all of that was “bullshit”, according the lovely Professor with the dreadlocks called Sinistra. It was an odd name and both Petunia and Vernon looked suspiciously at her when she introduced herself. Harry thought it was rather rude, (her name was odd, but pretty, and it seemed to suit her and her dark skin and dark green dress), but he had more than enough practice keeping thoughts inside his head.

(The inside of his mind was a strange place, there was a voice inside his head sometimes, which might not seem worrying until you find out that it isn’t his, that sometimes laughed at the internal comments he made, Harry was never quite sure what to make of that).

But he wasn’t focusing on that right now. More on the fact that apparently he was a wizard. And his mum and dad were, respectively, witches and wizards, and actually rather wealthy. Because his father was from a high ranking bloodline, the “House of Potters”. All of which, (including the mantle, “The Head of the House of Potter”), he would inherit when reaching the very old age of 18. Also, his parents were murdered by wizard Hitler, because his mum was of “impure blood”, whatever that meant, and when wizard Hitler tried to kill him, he killed himself instead. He was less concerned with the last part. His parents were dead, no matter the nature of their deaths, he was an orphan and stuck in the Dursley house.

Oh, and there was a magical boarding school which  you could attended 10 out 12 months of the year. So maybe not so stuck after all.

The past couple of days went like this: waking up on Wednesday, with the welts on his back stinging, (that trip to the zoo hadn't gone too well) with the liberty of a shower. Picking up the post from the frontdoor finding out their was a letter for him. Realising that, as the Dursley’s invasion of privacy was pretty consistent over the years, he should probably hide it before it was ripped up or burned without ever knowing the contents. Opening it in the dark of his cupboard that night, reading it with the spiders as company, a chest that felt like it was burning and a torch his wasn’t sure worked considering the lack of batteries in it. He had a week to accept his place in Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Suddenly, he thought he knew how the torch was working.

(There was a faint ringing in his ears that he recognised as laughter. But he had learnt to ignorre that years ago).

He had to sleep then, because his eyes felt like they had sand scrubbed into them, and he was uncomfortably aware of the way bruises stretched across his chest with every breath. Waking up on Thursday felt like any other day really. Breakfast to cook, chores to do, a burning question in his mind. Really, like everyday, the only difference being what the question was. So, as he made Aunt Petunia a salad, he summoned enough courage to ask it.

“I-I’m a wizard, d-d-id you know?”

Aunt Petunia dropped her teacup.

There were some things you should know about Petunia Dursley, previously, Petunia Evans. She was a jealous as a child, rightfully so, when her parents didn’t acknowledge any achievements she made, but fawned over her sister, Harry’s mother. She was a troubled teenager, not at all pretty or popular, hateful of her sister and her friend at Spinners End. She worked hard to be accepted into Nursing School, yet that was overlooked in comparison to Lily getting married to that miscreant Potter. Yet, none of this excuses her as an adult. She dropped out of University to marry a man and have her first child, and wished constantly she’d never left school. But her life was normal, her family was normal. Then her freak of a sister and her husband went off and died, leaving their wretched son in her care. So she did what any normal adult in charge of their recently orphaned child did…. Or not. She didn’t want Harry turning himself or her precious Dudley into a freak. Petunia took out all her anger and frustration on an innocent child, telling herself, _it was for their own good, who knows what else might happen. (_ The realisation came to her one evening, when at aged 5 Harry asked for some water, and flinched when she got up to run the tap, that maybe she had gone to far, Petunia had wanted to be strict, but never… _abusive_ , it made her skin crawl when she thought of that word, what she was. But it was going on too long, and the man she married was violent. She was unsure what would happen to _herself_ if she tried to stop him. It was self-preservation at this point.)

She had valiantly hoped that it had worked, she had managed to get rid of the freakishness.

So when Harry Potter stood in front of her, a letter clutched in his hand, and a face that seemed to lack most emotion but knowledge to know and the usual stutter in his voice, she knew her plans had failed.

But she knew it was inevitable, Petunia had seen examples of what magic could do, and she knew the… importance the _boy_ had to _that_ world. They could do nothing short of killing boy, and that was out of the questions.

She explained nothing to the boy, but whistled sharply to the owl she knew would be waiting outside. Writing a letter, precise and straight to the point, they were wanting someone to show Harry around and to help him buy his things for school. Whoever they chose was to be at their house at 11am sharp, with none of that freak stuff with them.

And that was that. Harry finished his chores for the day and spent some more time in the garden, even when done, cooked dinner for the family, then was sent outside to play with Dudley while Petunia had a “talk” with Vernon. When he got back with a black eye from a fresh round of Harry Hunting, Petunia’s “precious Dudders”, got a talking to for the first time in what must be years, and Harry got another lesson on how to apply the makeup bought especially for him (considering the darker skin tone). He was allowed a sandwich, an extra shower and an extra pack of paracetamol.

Harry went to sleep that night in a real bed, in a real bedroom. The mattress was too soft to sleep on, and there wasn’t the comfort of the his spiders looking out for him, Dudley’s broken toys loomed over him on either side. The shadows they cast were scary and otherworldly, but Harry had stopped believing in nonsense years ago.

(Maybe there was reason to believe again, a voice whispered in his mind. For once he didn’t know whether it was his or the other. He decided he didn’t care.)

(He ended clearing a small space on the floor and double folding his blanket to sleep, he wondered if they had beds in Hogwarts, if so there might be a problem.)

On Friday, Harry woke at 6am as usual, went through his morning ritual (noticing there was a role of bandages next to his bag of toiletries) to find that Petunia had already started breakfast. She had directed him to sit with the dinner table with some toast and milk, and told him a strict set of rules that he _had_ to follow, instructions to put on best clothes and to get to the front door in the next 5 minutes. (He did it in 4.) They drove around till they found a charity shop open, and got clothes that looked like they fit him, everyday clothing, underwear, socks and pyjamas and even drove to a  convenience store to buy him new toiletries, (toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, pain relievers, local anesthetic and bandages, the usual things) and drove back home before Dudley and Vernon even woke.

Petunia helped him put bandage his chest, apply extra makeup to his eye, with guilt in hers.

(Good, the voice whispered. Harry had no trouble recognising it that time.)

He put on the best outfit from the thrift store, a grey jumper over a flannel, jeans rolled over 5 times and bright pink socks, with his same ratty trainers with a hole in the sole, and waited for the doorbell ring.

(It did, at precisely 11am, Harry applauded the person’s punctuality.)

The person introduced herself as Professor of Astronomy Sinistra with a casual flick of her cornrows over her shoulder. Harry felt a strange sense of comradery with her when he felt the Dursley’s dislike of her grow. There was a look of something sharp in her gaze as she stared down his Aunt and Uncle.

And so his first adventure began.

It started with apparation, almost throwing up, meeting a kind, old barman named Tom, a scared, young man who was actually his Defense Against the Dark Arts, a bar full of people who were apparently very excited to meet him.

(He didn’t know why exactly, and the voice laughed knowingly.)

He saw a magical street, filled with magical shops and magical people and magical things, and magical creatures. It was all rather… magical. (If voices could roll their eyes, the other just did.) They made there way through crowds and crowds or people, in which Harry had a panic attack when he lost Sinistra, formed a headache, then found out he was rich after visiting a bank with extraordinarily rude Goblins.

(Harry still smiled at them, because he had found that smiling did wonders to others.)

(It did not work.)

(Harry kept smiling anyway.)

After that, they had lunch at a nice cafe where Harry had soup on Sinistra’s convincing, while she explained the unfortunate circumstances that preceded the death of his parents.

The calculating Professor seemed to realise that Harry was less concentrated on the fact they died via madman and more on the fact it _wasn’t_ by driving drunk.

There was no point dwelling, it seemed. And so, the day continued, as they often do.

Harry got fitted for his robes, met a boy who reminded him of an upperclass Dudley. He met a giant of a man called Hagrid who was “on a secre’ tas’ f’r Dumbledore ‘n Gringotts, ya see.”

He shopped for school books at a library that reminded him of the local one near Privet Drive, and picked up a great many deal more books that the letter said he needed. Because the weight of the books and the fact that he would need a way to carry the rest of things, he bought a trunk and a backpack that Sinistra approved of, but thought others wouldn’t, (“it’s muggle styled, non-wizard, some people will not like it,” she warned, Harry shrugged and convinced her to put an Undetectable Extension charm and a Durability charm that made sure it couldn’t be destroyed by any school child spells), the trunk was shrinkable for easy transportation, and once in his ownership, Sinistra waved her wand and the line “Property of Harry. J Potter” appeared. It seemed only logical to collect the stationary needed, then to the apothecary, and then the cauldron and telescope. Then what made being a wizard _really_ official.

(It’s the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter.)

It was a long procedure filled with wand waving and beautiful colours that Ollivander deemed all _wrong._ The wand that chose Harry was 11" long, made of holly, and possessed a phoenix feather core and shot sparks at the ceiling, brilliant colours that he couldn’t remember afterwards and came with what sounded like a warning but what could equally be classed as a fun bit of trivia.

Then it was back to the Dursley’s. With his wand in his trunk and his trunk shrunk down inside his backpack, they apparated to an alley near his street, and Sinistra walked him back to Number 4 Privet Drive. But as she turned to leave, she saw a glimpse of of blueish skin underneath what seemed to be flaky skin.

“Harry, that’s a bruise isn’t it,” her tone left no room for argument, “how did you get that.”

Really, adults were rather stupid weren’t they? As if Harry was ever going to tell her the truth. He immediately broke into tears, the drops leaving blue lines over one eye.

“Please don’t tell Aunt Petunia!”, he whimpered, “she’d be so disappointed, I’d told her the bullies had stopped.”

(I wonder what it says about you, if the only way you can stop stuttering is when you lie, the other whispered in his mind.)

Sinistra accepted it and watched in shock when Harry was snatched in quickly by his Aunt, and the door swiftly slammed in her face before she could say anything. Petunia must be mad about the tears still sliding down his face, she decided. But there was something else, she was sure it. Harry had been a well behaved boy, almost too well behaved, he had manners like a house-elf, and there was something distinctly _wrong_ with the whole thing, like the way he had what was most definitely a panic attack and kept scratching at his arm until he drew blood, and acted like he didn’t even realise, or how he didn’t seem that shocked that his parents were actually murdered by You-Know-Who. There was something strange, and she wanted to knock on the door and ask to have a cup of tea, but it was getting dark, and she had an anxious Headmaster waiting for a report. Sinistra turned and walked away.

So that’s where we find Harry, lying on his new duvet on the ground wondering over the past couple days. He had convinced his Aunt that the trunk in his backpack was a momento and had asked the teacher to look after his supplies for the time being. She believed him, so he was sent upstairs with a bowl of soup and his backpack to leave him to himself for the rest of the evening, things were to change tomorrow she said.

The rest of the family were downstairs eating dinner when Harry finally noticed the changes in the room. The majority of toys shoved in here before had been cleared away, leaving it oddly open. A threadbare rug covered the area on one side of the bed, and on the other, where Harry was now seated on the new duvet, he saw a rickety desk he was sure wasn’t there before, and a bookcase which was now filled with all of Dudleys old books displayed haphazard shoved on the shelves, as if they had been placed there in a rush. It was the same bed and wardrobe, but now the wardrobe was filled with all his clothes hanging, which even with the thrift store heist, seemed to be meagre pickings. He was wondering what his uniform looked like when he remembered, he had been fitted for robes! The word felt strange in his mouth, like quill and parchment, he felt like the school was maybe stuck in medieval times.

Harry shot up. His robes! Had they been picked up? The witch in plum coloured… robes, had told them to pick them up in half an hour!

Harry tore into his backpack and picked out his trunk, it enlarged itself in his hands and settled with a small _thunk_ on the duvet. He lifted up the latch and threw the lid open, only to make a noise of confusion. There lay the robes, neatly folded inside the paper bags. How- Sinistra must have picked them up while he was in the bookstore, he theorised, or while I was persuading the clerk at the trunk store that he _did_ in fact want the muggle backpack.

Whenever she did it, he was grateful, it would have been a horror to have to show up in his old clothes. And his dragon-hide boots were there too, tucked underneath the paper.

 _Dragons,_ he marvelled, were they actually real? Or just a marketing scheme? A grin spread across his face, he would find out soon enough.

He went through his things, _his_ things. So much more to call his own.

His books, filled with magic yet to be learnt, stories and history of world that was just a few weeks away. The pewter cauldron gleamed dully in the light of his flickering lamp. The telescope next to it, shiny, new, and _his_. Sinistra was the astronomy teacher, no wonder she has seem excited when he offhandedly told her he had memorised the constellations.

The cauldron was for Potions, actual potions! He resisted the urge to pick up the textbook immediately, in favour running through the subject list.

Astronomy.... Care of Magical Creatures...Charms… Defence Against the Dark Arts… History of Magic… Potions… Transfiguration.

The subjects sounded so wonderful, seemed out of this world, but… what about Maths? Or Science? Or English? There wasn’t even P.E, but he was grateful for that, small and skinny, no one wanted him on any team no matter the sport.

What else would he be missing? Would there still be houses? And a Sportsday? Would they play football _at all?_ He might not have been wanted to play, but he enjoyed playing, usually just running up and down the sidelines waiting for the ball to be passed, but _still_ . Cross Country? Eat the same foods? _Did they even drink water._

(You’re going to pass out if you don’t breath soon, said the other. Harry very cleverly replied, shut up.)

And Sinistra had mentioned Harry was somewhat of a big deal in their world, _for living_. God, they wouldn’t expect anything of him would they?

He hadn't particularly payed attention to that little titbit at the time, trying not to wallow in the resignation that the Dursley’s had lied once again.

He wished he had his spiders.

Dark brown and furry, they were hidden in the dark recesses of his cupboard, they had kept him company when no one else had been there, when he healed, when he starved. He had tried to stroke them once, held the palm of his hand, stroking his fingertip down the abdomen of the biggest one. It had flailed and and Harry had accidentally ripped off its leg. He had cried that night, for the first time in years.

More than anything he wanted something to hold when he fell asleep. He had clung to his blankets for all those years, then to the new, too soft duvet, that had felt too… _Dursley-ish_.

So that night he went went through his new things, finding in the process, a pale grey scarf. One Harry was sure he hadn't bought. But there was a note tucked into the folds of it, the elegant writing, signed by Professor Sinistra read, Happy early birthday Harry, with a small smiley face next to it. He held it up to his chest, his first _proper_ birthday gift. The wool was ticklish against cheek, and the material felt coarse enough not to be.. too soft.

He held it as he slept, the only things that indicated that the last couple days weren't a dream were packed up, back in the backpack, safely snuggled in the back of the wardrobe.

He hadn't slept so well in years.

(The other voice whispered in content too, all was going well.)


	2. in lucem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for my friend Sketch, I love you dearly, you better have eaten something today  
> \--   
> this is not beta'd lol, so any mistakes are my own, sorry it's a little short, ive been caught up in other things

Aunt Petunia took him to King’s Cross train station in London on 1st September. The radio played dimly, just enough for Harry to hear in the back seat, quiet enough for the sound to play on his nerves, more than anything. It was silent between the Aunt and Nephew, the only words spoken were the occasional bout of road rage and at the start of the journey a question asking if he had all of his things with him, as she “doesn’t want any of that vile  _ wizard stuff”,  _ for longer that she had to. In comparison to some other trips the Dursleys and him had had, it was positively  _ delightful.  _

It seemed to take an eternity to arrive, and when they arrived, they paused in the car. Harry didn’t know why, but the moment was important. Maybe it was the fact that this was the first time he’d spent such a long time away from the  Dursley’s, or even the house. It was… unnatural somehow, like the end of something, or the start of something else.

“Harry.. I-”. The unexpected words made Harry start. All he wanted to do is board the train Sinistra talked about. It had sounded fantastic, he hadn’t had a day off from chores in weeks, possibly even months. “Harry… Have you got your ticket with you? I’m not having you back for the year just because you couldn’t find your way to the platform.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia… but”, he searched through his backpack, where he’d placed the ticket between the pages of his Potion’s textbook, “where  _ is _ Platform nine and three quarters?” He had no wish to stay with them either. 

Petunia sniffed contemptuously, “Run at the wall between nine and ten”. She continued on in a mutter, “Really, for thinking themselves so high above others, wizards have quite possibly the worst ideas. Placing the door to their vile world in an impossible place to find? Really.”

Harry didn’t want to get in trouble with his Aunt so soon after they’d been on the best terms in what seemed like years, and he knew that his Aunt wouldn’t put him in a position to possibly come back to her so soon so.. however mad the advice to run at a wall seemed… 

(You have to do it, the voice almost giggled, do you trust the word of such a horrible  _ muggle _ ?)

Aunt Petunia looked round at him, “Well then, Boy. What are you waiting for.  _ Leave _ .”

Harry opened the car door and slid out, swinging his backpack onto his back, he shut the car door and walked to entrance of King’s Cross. He did not look back once. 

 

The platforms were heaving with people. Crowds and crowds of people making their morning commute, or visiting family, or like him, going off to (magical) boarding schools. It seemed there were more in the magical than one might think. There were many, many families pushing trollies along, topped with old fashioned trunks and sleeping owls in cages, cats lazily lying atop or toads in small tanks, or in one case, in the hands of a small boy. A group of red-heads were pushing through the swells of people. The mother, a plump women with frizzy hair and father, a worn but caring looking man, were wearing muggle clothing just  _ off _ enough to tip other wizards off that they were in no way muggles. He watched as each of the sons, one… two,three… four, then the daughter and parents, run into the wall then disappear. He felt mildly surprised that Aunt Petunia’s information was correct. He looked around, nobody had noticed the family that had ran head-first at the wall. And then vanished. Harry grinned, it must be magic.

Realising he had to go through sooner or later, he couldn’t miss the train after all, he tightened the straps on his backpack, and ran at the wall. 

He slowed down to jog as came out the other side, shuddering at the sensation of passing through something solid, and starting at the sound of a of the whistle blowing. He stared. Somehow this entire platform seemed more…  _ magical.  _

(Foolish boy…. Harry ignored it.)

There was a bright red steam engine waiting on the tracks, and although many parents or children stood around, crying and clinging to to their families, the entire room seemed brighter somehow. Harry just stood there, taking it all in and wondered if it would be like this at Hogwarts, until he was shocked into reality by a cart pushing him over and causing him to go sprawling out on the floor. 

“Stand out of the way of the entry point, foolish boy, you must have that much sense in you.” 

A trolly rolled passed him, and Harry caught a glimpse of platinum blond hair, as he stood up and rushed towards the door of the train. His backpack slipped from his arm as he bent it to scratch at his forearm, hard. He wandered up the train, looking for a free compartment, almost jogging past the one containing a boy with platinum blond hair. There were no compartments available, but as he passed a girl with her head in a book, he decided this was the best to sit down. 

He knocked on the glass, sliding it open, “E-excuse me-me? Can I s-s-sit here?”

He watched in slight amusement as she gave no sign she’d even heard him. He cleared his throat forcefully, observing her. 

She looked about his own age, with almost black wild frizzy hair that the ends were plaited into. Evidently to stop it from covering her face. She was by no means pretty, not like the girl with long, straight, blonde hair he glimpsed of in the same compartment as the boy who ran him over  on the platform. This girl though, her nose didn’t fit right on her face, and from what he could see, she had two large buck-teeth. But, it was decidedly beautiful the intensity this eleven year old studied her Transfiguration text-book, her tongue poking out of her mouth.

Making an assumption that she probably wouldn’t notice him just reading too, he stepped softly in and slid the door closed again. He sat down on the seat opposite her and curled up in the corner next to the window, wincing when the flannel of his shirt under his jumper came unstuck from the scabs on his back. Must of been with all the movement he thought mildly.

(Now that you’re at the school, I can teach you spells to heal… the voice suggested, not for the first time. The voice knew Harry wouldn’t respond, he never did.)

Ignoring the whispering, he looked around for something that could tell him her name without actually… talking. There, her trunch perched precariously on the racks above, her name read clearly, Hermione J Granger. And there again, on the inside of her satchel as the flap fell openas the train started moving, there was a name tag sewn in. Was she a…. Pureblood? Halfblood? Muggleborn?

Harry decided promptly that it didn’t matter, and pulled out his Herbology textbook, it was his third time reading this one, but gardening was his favourite chore, and  he was figuring if any of the knowledge could be applied to his gardens. (His gardens, not the Dursley’s, they were all him. Harry had literally poured blood sweat and tears into the plants.)

(You know that’s rather pathetic, the other voice drawled.), 

 

About half an hour later a knock at the door rose Harry from his reading. There was a boy, chubby and very nervous lookings, top lip trembling, looking at Hermione, he realised she still hadn’t looked up. 

“H-have any of you seen my-my toad, he’s r-run awa-way again. Trever. He’s, um, called Trevor.” He sounded as nervous as he looked, “Oh, a- and i’m Neville.”

“Ss-sorry, I hav-vn’t seen any t-toads,” Harry said.  Neville looked at the other person in the compartment, obviously waiting for an answer from her. “D-don’t mind H-hermione, she seems rather, entranced in her book.”

“Huh? I’m sorry, did you say my name? Wait, when did you sit down. Are we off already?” Hermoine said, looking at them in some sort of confusion. 

“I’m Neville I-I’m looking fo-r my toad, Trever. He’s run away.” Neville said, his face was blotchy, Harry noticed, and tears started well up,  especially when Hermione asked, 

“Shouldn’t you be keeping him in a cage of some kind? It shouldn’t be able to escape then.” She folded over the corner of her book, “we’ll help you look for him, won’t we? What’s your name? You havn’t told us.” She looked at him expectedly.

“I-I’m Harry.” 

She gasped, “Not Harry  _ Potter _ , are you? I’ve read all about you in  _ Hogwarts:A History,  _ it’s fascinating, you’re an anomaly of the wizarding world. You’re not meant to alive, you see.”

(So famous,  _ Potter,  _ why don’t you tell us all about your parents dying, killed by- Voldemort,  such a lovely tale to tell)

He stood up, twisting his fingers sharply and grabbed his backpack and spoke, “let’s just go look for Neville’s toad.”

She looked putout, obviously wanting an agreement, but  stood up nonetheless, “you don’t have to take your things with you, you know, where’s your trunk anyway? Did you know that at the end of the journey you can just leave all your bags here and they’re brought to your dormitory automatically.”

“All my stuff is in my backpack,” Harry replied, shifting as the weight of it settled against his sore back, “I’d rather keep it with me.” 

(First day and you’re already making a stand for yourself, eh? New school year, new year, the other voice felt like it was slinking around)

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but obviously deemed it not worthy, as she led the way back into the corridor. 

  
  


The rumble of the train seemed almost soothing as they walked up and down, walking up the corridor, a couple of times they lost their footing, often falling on the glass of compartments and annoying some of the older teenagers. 

They consecutively checked every cabin, Hermione loud and demanding as she asked the occupant if they’d seen Neville’s toad. None of them had. 

The trio met few others in the corridor, a notable exception being a group of boys, two stocky and the other of slight stature with that white blonde hair that had made him fall earlier. Harry slunk behind Hermione when they met them, and the other group did nothing but shoulder past, the blonde one sneering and spitting out the word, “Mudblood.”

Hermione slid open another door, where three girls sat, chattering about something. 

“Can we help you?” A blonde girl the same age of them sat, her voice holding a note of well practiced poshness, unlike the accent Harry’s aunt liked to put on when they had “important guests”. 

“Have you seen a toad? Neville’s lost his. His name his Trevor,” replied Hermione. 

An asian girl with dark hair cut short in a bob laughed in triumph, “ _ See,  _ Daphne. I told you it was Neville’s. I’ve never seen any other toad that looked quite that close to a panic attack as Trevor. Really, Neville, it seem you have not changed in the slightest.”

Neville walked forward further into the compartment, stretching out his hands, “C-can I h-have him back? Only Gran’s going to be really mad if I don’t get him back.”

The other girl in the compartment, stocky and taller than the other two, with hair that was remarkably dull compared to the others, leant forward and laid the toad in his upturned hands. “Consider this a favour,” despite looking less… posh than the other two, she sounded exactly like them, the same lilts and turn of pitch, that even Neville held, “and consider yourself lucky, we only just convinced Malfoy not to post a ransom.”

All of them stood in awkward silence after that proclamation, then, as Harry started to edge away, the blonde gave a gasp, “where are my manners! I am Daphne Greengrass, this is Pansy Parkinson, and this is Millicent Bulstrode”, Daphne gestured to the asian and the stocky girl in turn, them looked at them expectantly. 

“I’m Hermione Granger, and this is Harry-”

“Harry, j-just Harry,” he cut off Hermione with a glare. 

“Granger... “ Pansy mused, “I’ve not heard that name before, you must be a mud-  _ muggleborn.  _ And, you, what was your last name? I didn’t catch it.” She fluttered her eyelashes innocently at him. 

“It’s just, Harry. My last n-name is unimportant, I was raised by muggles.” It seemed his stutter mainly disappeared, ever since he stepped on the train, maybe it was magic. Maybe it was the fact Dudley hadn’t poisoned everyone against him, no one knew anything but what he wanted him to. The power was quite refreshing, Harry thought. For the moment, he could control what people knew of him. 

(Be careful,   _ Harry,  _ the power can give you a headrush, you wont be able to think clearly… be careful, the voice sounded anything but like a warning, more gleeful)

The girls shared a glance and Daphne tapped the seat next to her. “Come sit with us, Draco will be a while, we sent him up to the other side of the train, antagonising some Weaslys I think.”

They all sat, somewhat uncomfortably, Harry and Neville perched on the edge of the seats. Hermione broke the next silence. 

“Have any of you read the textbooks yet? I’ve read all of them  _ at least _ twice. Some even three times. It’s important to be prepared for the school year you’know.”

The rest of the ride seemed to go quickly from there, with the boys popping back to their original compartment, and changing their, before returning to the girls. 

Soon, they stopped, and got off, and were directed to a giant of a man, who he’s bed during his visit to Diagon Ally. 

“Fir’ years, fir’s yers, o’er here!” He called to them, where he put groups of three into boats, and once they all settled down, the boats moved off. 

He was in a boat with Neville and Hermione, and even Hermione could talk when they saw Hogwarts for the first time. 

It was beautiful. reflected in the dark of the lake, it was illuminated all over, seeming to glow from within. (Magic… he had breathed out at the sight, because what else could have made it so… enchanting, the voice had scoffed at his wordplay, but even it could deny his thoughts).

There was a woman waiting for the group of children when they arrived at a set of huge doors. She was old looked with grey hair drawn back into a severe bun, and introduced herself as Professor McGonagall. Harry couldn’t help comparing her to Professor Sinistra, and found that he preferred to more layed-back Slytherin professor. 

Then in a whirl of things, they were ushered into the Great Hall, candles floated precariously in the air far above where four great tables with students sat at them. They were obviously divided into the houses, their individual colours prominent within them. The ceiling was gone, replaced with images of the night sky, and as he stared, he noticed a comet fly across the inkiness, leaving a wide arc of light amongst the spots of stars. It was magnificent. 

He barely noticed that a hat was performing, while the strict professor stood next to it, her posture tense, as if it was normal for pieces of clothing to start singing. Harry was too busy staring at the sky/ceiling, that the names being called out blurred past, being aware enough to notice both Hermione and Neville were sorted into Gryffindor with loud cheers, while Daphne, Millicent and Pansy were sorted into Slytherin, and while their table clapped for them, the rest of the room stayed suspiciously quiet, with the exceptions of booing coming from the red coated table. 

Harry was soon called up to the stool, the whole room staring at him, as whispered spread across the tables. As he glanced at the hall, he noticed Daphne staring at him with surprise, but no malice that was good, he thought absentmindedly as he sat down. The old tattered hat placed on his head, the brim so wide it blocked his view of everyone in the hall. 

There was complete silence for a moment, and he wondered how this was meant to determine his house when he heard a voice. But this wasn’t the other, no, it was like magic prying into his brain, amd he could almost hear it’s magic flitting through his memories. 

“Well, well well..” the hat was in his brain, not in his ears, echoing like the other did, “what do we have here…”


End file.
